Brotherhood Of War: The Lieutenants Part 36

The bag held two changes of underwear, two khaki s.h.i.+rts, a razor, a tube of shaving cream, and a styptic pencil. Over the underwear and below the s.h.i.+rts was the Luger. The Geffilan belt and holster had simply rotted away, but he had kept the GOTI MIT UNS bra.s.s buckle. The battle jacket was in Germany. Florence Horter had said there was no point in his taking it with him, and he had agreed.

He bought his ticket, boarded the train, and went to the club car. He was disappointed that they refused to serve drinks until the train left the station. A salesman came and sat down in the opposing chair and took out his briefcase and started to use it as a desk. Lowell was relieved; he would not be expected to talk.

When the train started moving, he ordered a bottle of ale from the waiter and drank most of it down immediately. He was parched. Some soldiers got on the train in Baltimore, but none came into the club car. A great many soldiers got on the train in Trenton, and a dozen came into the club car.

Lowell thought that it was almost exactly a year before that he had gotten on the train at Trenton, Private Craig W. Lowell, ordered from the U. S. Army Replacement Training Center Infantry), Fort Dix, N.J., ,to the U.S. Army Overseas Personnel Station, Camp Kilmer, with seven days delay-en-route leave.

Like these guys, probably.

A group of four troopers obviously fresh from basic took over a four-man table and called for drinks. One of them pulled down his tie, unb.u.t.toned his jacket, and slumped down in the chair.

It must be the ale, Lowell thought. That trooper's behavior annoys me more than I am willing to bear in silence.

He got up and walked to the table.

"Pull up your tie, b.u.t.ton your jacket, and act like a soldier," he heard himself say.

He was met with eight hostile, scornful eyes. n.o.body moved.

"I won't tell you again," Lowell said.

"Yes, sir!" the one with the loose tie and open jacket said.

There was a snicker from one of the others. But the tie was pulled up, and the jacket b.u.t.toned.

"Thank you," Lowell said. He returned to his seat. For some reason, he was very pleased with himself, even though he couldn't imagine why he had done what he did.

The train backed into Pennsylvania Station, so that the parlor cars and the club car were close to the end of the platform.

Long before he could get up and get off the train, he saw his grandfather, a tall, heavy, mustachioed man in a chesterfield and homburg, standing just outside the wrought-iron gate. A man in gray chauffeur's livery stood beside him.

When he finally managed to leave the train, and his grandfather saw him, there was a smile on his face. He took his homburg off and held it in his hand as Craig walked up.

"Well," the Old Man said, "home is the soldier, home from the wars." He put his hand out. Craig Lowell hugged him. His grandfather, he thought, was the only one in the family worth a s.h.i.+t.

"You don't have any luggage?" his grandfather asked, rather ceremoniously putting the homburg on his head.

"Let me have that, sir," the chauffeur said, reaching for the canvas bag from the Frankfurt PX.

"I'll carry it, thank you," Lowell said.

The car, a 1940 Packard with a body by Derham, the front seat exposed to the elements, was parked in the 33rd Street entrance to the station. A policeman, standing near it, touched his cap as they approached. Lowell's grandfather waved Craig into the car first. Inside, it smelled of leather and cigars. His grandfather leaned forward in the car and took a cigar from a box mounted beneath the gla.s.s divider.

"May I have one of those?" Craig asked.

"Yes, of course," his grandfather said. He looked indecisive for a moment, and then handed him the cigar he held. "I've already clipped it," he said. "Would you like me to light it for you?"

"Just hand me the lighted match, please," Craig said. His grandfather struck a regular kitchen match on the sole of his shoe and handed the flaming match to Craig.

"How long have you been smoking cigars?" he asked.

"Since I was ten," Craig said. "My father caught me smoking a cigarette and "made me smoke a cigar, so I would get sick. But I didn't get sick; I liked it. What he did was teach me to smoke cigars, not give up smoking."

"I didn't know that," his grandfather said.

"Where are we going?" Craig asked.

"I thought we'd have some lunch," his grandfather said.

"Porter wanted us to come downtown, but I thought you would be going out to Broadlawns."

"Porter?"

"I thought it would be appropriate, under the circ.u.mstances, to have Porter welcome you home. It's such a trip in from the Island that I didn't think you'd want your mother to endure it." Lowell wondered if that meant his mother was drunk again, or flying high on her pills.

"I had hoped to have a talk with you alone," Lowell said.

"I was under the impression you liked Porter."

"Porter is an a.s.shole," Lowell said.

"You're not in the company of soldiers now," the Old Man corrected him. "Watch your language, Craig."

"You told him to come," Craig said, an accusation.

"I telephoned to tell him you had returned to this country, and he said that I should by all means bring you to lunch when you got to New York."

"What is he doing downtown?" Lowell asked.

"Working for Morgan and Company," his grandfather said.

"I thought he could use the experience." Geoffrey Craig had had two children, a son and a daughter.

Porter Craig was the son of his son, now deceased, and Craig Lowell the son of his daughter. There were no other children or grandchildren.

The Packard limousine pulled to the curb before a building just off Fifth A venue on 43rd Street. The chauffeur ran around the front and opened the pa.s.senger door. Geoffrey Craig got out, and then turned to help Craig. They walked up a shallow flight of stairs, and the older man held open a door for his grandson.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Craig," the porter said. He went to a large board which listed the names of every member of the club and had a little sliding tag device to indicate if they were in the building.

Lowell looked up at the board and saw Craig, Porter below Craig, Geoffrey.

"Porter belongs?" he asked. The Old Man nodded.

"I thought you had to be at least sixty," Craig said.

He got a withering look from his grandfather. Porter Craig at that moment walked into the foyer of the club. He was a slightly chubby man of indeterminate age. He was actually, Craig thought, twenty-nine or thirty. He could have pa.s.sed for twenty-five or forty.

"Well, h.e.l.lo, Craig," he said, with forced joviality. "How the h.e.l.l are you, boy?" He grabbed Lowell's shoulders.

"Watch the G.o.dd.a.m.n shoulder," Lowell said.

"Sorry," Porter Craig said, jerking his hands away.

The porter appeared with a claim check.

"I'll be happy to take that bag, sir," he said.

"I'll keep it, thank you," Lowell said.

"Does Craig have to sign the guest book?" Porter Craig asked.

"I believe he does," the older man said.

"Sign it for me, then, Porter," Lowell said.

"Yes, of course." They walked up a wide flight of stairs and took chairs around a small table.

A waiter took their drink order.

"Ordinarily, I don't," Porter Craig said. "But this is rather a celebration, isn't it?"

When the drinks were served, a scotch sour for the Old Man, a scotch and soda for Porter, and a bottle of ale for Lowell, Porter Craig raised his gla.s.s and said, "Welcome home, Craig."

"Thank you," Lowell said. He wondered what Ilse was doing at precisely that moment. It was half past one here. It was half past six, already getting dark, in Germany.

"Granddad tells me you're going out to Broadlawns and get your strength back," Porter Craig said.

"I don't know if I am or not," Lowell said.

"Because of Pretier, you mean?" his grandfather asked.

"Actually, he's rather a decent sort, Craig."

"If he can put up with Mother," Lowell said, "he's either a saint or a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t."

"That's a remark in extraordinarily bad taste," his grandfather said.

Lowell shrugged, but made no apology.

"Your mother expects you," his grandfather said. "You're going to have to go out there."

Lowell shrugged again, this time in agreement.

"I'll go see her," he said.

Lowell finished his ale, and looked around for the waiter.

"Is that good for you?" his grandfather asked.

Lowell looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

"I'm a big boy, now," he said.

"With a chip on your shoulder," Porter Craig said.

"Porter, Craig has just gone through a terrible experience," their grandfather began, and was interrupted when another guest stumbled over the canvas bag from the PX in Frankfurt.

He didn't fall down, just lurched, regained his balance, and gave the trio a dirty look.

"What in the world do you have in that bag," Porter Craig asked, "that you refuse to check it?"

"A change of underwear, a razor, and a pistol," Craig said.

"What are you doing with a pistol?" his grandfather asked.

"You'll go to jail," Porter Craig said. "Didn't you ever hear of the Sullivan Law? Pistols are illegal."

"Not for an officer, they're not," Lowell said.

"I've been curious about that," Porter Craig said. "Are you really an officer? How did you become an officer? You're only nineteen. And you didn't finish school. The last I heard, you were expelled and drafted, and the next thing, you show up in an officer's uniform."

"Just who the h.e.l.l do you think you are, Porter, the FBI?" Lowell asked.

"Porter's curiosity is natural," their grandfather said. "I'm more than a little curious myself."

"You have a right to be," Lowell said. "So far as I know, that temporary guardians.h.i.+p order is still in effect."

"And I don't?" Porter Craig asked.

"f.u.c.k off, Porter," Craig Lowell said, conversationally.

Heads turned.

"Lower your voice," the Old Man said. "Porter, under the circ.u.mstances, I think that it might best if Craig and I talked privately. " Porter Craig, red-faced, tight-lipped, got to his feet and fled from the room. He didn't even say goodbye. Grandfather and grandson locked eyes.

"I realize now that bringing him here was a mistake," the older man said.

"I've never liked that sonofab.i.t.c.h," Craig said. "And one of the things that came to mind when he gave me the phony dear-cousin welcome downstairs was that I no longer have to put up with his bulls.h.i.+t."

"You have proved that you are a man," his grandfather said.

"That language is unnecessary. Please remember that you are a guest in my club. A club to which your father belonged."

"I'm sorry," Craig said, sounding genuinely contrite.

"We'll say no more about it," his grandfather said. He took a wooden match and struck it and handed it to Craig, whose cigar had gone out. "Do you like that?"

"Really good."